


Under Glass

by This Girl Is (non_sequential)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Euthanasia, Forced Pregnancy, Horror, Mental Breakdown, Pregnancy Termination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_sequential/pseuds/This%20Girl%20Is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't torture, this is Science.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Melusinahp for the beta. I have altered but not taken out the naming convention that she hated, so if it bugs you, it’s because I refused to take advice when I was given it. Sorry.

It is the great fear of those who are different, not just a bit odd or peculiar, but really very different, that they will be reduced to a thing, a curiosity, an object, a subject. In this case Subject EMRYMG7.

“14:51. Subject’s initial response is lethargic, despite elevation of the pulse. Pupils are slightly dilated.”

Lying on the bed in his room, he tries to cling to his sense of self. The things that made him the person he was before he was Subject EMRYMG7, but it's been so long, and they're so far away. It's hard these days to even remember his name, but he struggles to hold on to the things by which he can define himself outside these walls.

Mum. That's a good one. That's warmth and hugs, scoldings sometimes, but always love. And food. There was lots of eating. Biscuits and scones and those little cakey things he can’t remember the name of. He thinks there might have been a smell that was Mum too, but it's hardest to remember smells with the faint but persistent odour of antiseptic constantly in the air.

They seem to be trying to test another drug on him. He has no idea how they expect to get decent results when he's already so doped out, his magic too sluggish to respond to his will. Oh, Will! That's another one! Laughter and anger, and running around being dumb kids and Outside. He can't remember whether he really loved Outside, or whether he just loves the idea of it now, when he hasn't seen it in so long.

He moans as whatever they're doing to him this time makes something deep inside him cramp in agony. He curls up on his side to try and alleviate the pain. It doesn’t work. He feels himself begin to cry as it goes on without stopping. There's no point trying not to, he's found. They don't care either way. This isn't torture, this is Science.

“15:03. Subject appears to be suffering from abdominal pains. Pulse is becoming erratic, but not dangerously so.”

He thinks there are six of them in all. It gets difficult to be certain, though. It's like that thing with the seven dwarves. You can never remember all seven at the same time. There's always one that you can't remember, and it's always a different one. He used to try and remember all the dwarves, just for something to think about, but he never could, and it started making him feel a bit unhinged so he had to stop. They work in shifts. Always two of them present. One stays in the locked booth whenever the other comes into the cells. They're just rooms really, but as far as he's concerned the locked doors make them cells. They didn't always do that, with the careful passage through the airlock-style doors – one locked door always between him and the outside, and one of them always safely outside. He's never been able to decide whether he's proud or pissed off with himself for making them do that. He'd been so close to getting out. But it was a long time ago, so he just vacillates between the two feelings. It's not like it matters anyway.

It feels like someone is stirring his insides with a hot poker. But what’s worse is the weird judder in the faint, and ever fainter, thrum of his magic. He hasn’t been able to use it for ages, but he thinks it might be a bit like a guy with a spinal injury. He might not be able to feel his erection, but he knows it’s there. He can reach out and touch it, at least. This feels like they might be making actual steps towards cutting it off for good. It’s terrifying in a way none of their other experiments have quite managed.

“15:27. Subject still in pain. Pulse is elevated but steady. Subject is displaying symptoms of fear. I think this might be- What the hell!?”

A door crashes open somewhere. He’s pretty sure he didn’t do that. He’d like to have. He’d like to throw the doors open, all of them, even the one keeping Edwin in his cell. Then he could leave. They could all go home. He wishes he could remember exactly where home was. His Mum would be so disappointed. She’d made him memorise their address when he was wee so that he could always get home if he ever got lost. He’s very lost now. He thinks he might be too lost to ever get home again.

There are voices. More than two, which is weird, because there’s only ever two of them and they never yell like that.

“You can’t go in there, they’re dangerous! Are you mad!?”

“Am _I_ mad?” a new voice asks. He doesn’t know this voice at all, but it does sound pretty mad. “You’re locking people up and performing illegal and unethical experiments on them, and you want to know if _I’m_ mad?”

“The subjects are dangerous, sir! You can’t go in there! You’re not even supposed to be here! Your father-”

He wishes he was dangerous. He thinks he could have been, once, when this all started. But he was too stupid, not scared enough, and now pretty much all he can do is cry at them, which is definitely less than intimidating.

“That’s the best reason I can think of to be here, actually. Find out exactly what it is he doesn’t want me to see and, God, I can see why. What the fuck have you been doing to these people?”

The door to his cell opens and a man he doesn’t recognise comes in. He’s wearing a suit and carrying a middling size gun. They must have got creative with the hallucinogens this time. The man crouches next to him, keeping the door in his line of sight. He’s very handsome. It’s not helping with the pain, but at least it’s an unusually pleasant distraction.

“Can you hear me?” the man asks. He’s never had a hallucination that spoke to him before. Actually, despite everything, he’s never really had a hallucination before. It’s all very strange. Especially since he’s pretty sure that his hallucination isn’t the same as the angry voice that came from outside. On the plus side, the awful juddering seems to be easing off, and his erection is still there. No. His magic, he means his magic. He’s pretty sure he didn’t have an erection. Well, obviously he’s _had_ them, but not-

“My name’s Lancelot,” his handsome hallucination says. “Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?”

He’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to talk back to hallucinations, but he hasn’t had company in ages, and it’s not like he can get any more locked up than he already is. Please, God, surely he can’t.

“Ee,” he says, “Em, ar, wy, em-“

“No, your name,” the man interrupts. “Tell me your name.”

He stares at the man for a moment and blinks. It’s a bit like trying to remember how his Mum smells, or the seventh dwarf. Fucking dwarves.

“Oh, Jesus God!” another voice shouts, startled. How many hallucinations can he be hallucinating? What the hell did they put in this stuff this time? “Arthur!” This voice is different from his hallucination and the angry voice. He’s sure he should be able to tell why the voice is different. Well, it sounds a bit like he’s going to throw up, but that’s not what- Irish! The voice is Irish.

“Oh fuck,” says another voice. No, the first voice, which seems to be the Arthur voice. “Is she even alive?”

“Freya!” he yells, rolling off the bed and shoving Lancelot away so he falls on his backside, probably mostly from surprise. His limbs are weak and wobbly, and the pain in his belly is still excruciating, but he has to know, has to see, and the door is right there and _open_.

He stumbles through it, slamming his shoulder into the doorframe as he goes. He follows the noise to another cell-room and after a moment Lancelot catches up with him. He’s pretty solid for a hallucination as he takes his arm to steady him.

It is her. There are people all around her, mostly dressed in suits and holding guns like Lancelot’s. One of them is holding one of the White Coat Men by the arm. Not like Lancelot is holding him, but like They do, like they want to drag you as fast as they can.

The White Coat Man is talking a lot, and fast. “Technically, yes. We wouldn’t be able to support her otherwise. But there was an incident. She’s brain-dead, but she was still viable so we-“

“Stop talking now,” the Arthur Voice says, and it’s the suit man who is holding the Whitecoatman, although now he’s throwing him up against the wall the way They do sometimes. He looks quite a lot like he wants to use the gun in his other hand.

He edges further into the room, and then he can see her properly. His legs give up and he falls back against Lancelot. “Oh, God,” he whispers. “Oh God, Freya.”

She is hooked up to a bunch of machines. There is a steady bleeping, which some deeply buried memory tells him is her heart. There are so many wires and tubes that it looks like they’re strangling her. She was always pale and delicate, but now she looks like a broken doll. There is no colour in her cheeks, but there are dark rings around her eyes, heavy and ominous like a thunderstorm, and she is more still than he ever saw her, too still even for sleep. The worst thing, though, is the protrusion of her belly. Still viable. God.

He lets Lancelot set him back on his feet, then shuffles over to her bed. He reaches out to hold her hand. It is warm, of course. They’re very carefully keeping her alive, warm, _viable_ , but it’s a false warmth. It’s like the dry, dead, temperate air of the climate control in the cells compared to a roaring fire in the hearth in the middle of winter when the garden is dusted with snow.

He hadn’t even been suspicious when they had let him meet with Freya, spend time with her. They’d both been so thrilled to have someone to talk to, to touch, that they hadn’t questioned it. They hadn’t done more than hold hands and cuddle and kiss a little when she’d cottoned on. The more they touched, the more time they were given together to touch. It hadn’t taken much of a leap from wondering why they were being quietly encouraged to be intimate to some horrific conclusions. They had resolutely stopped touching more than each other’s hands, and after a couple of weeks they’d been separated again. He hadn’t seen her since. He’d wondered if she was even alive. _Technically._

Skin as pale as snow and hair as dark as ebony, he thinks. There are even seven men in the room, and it’s such a stupid thing, it’s only a story and he’s an idiot, but he knows that if he doesn’t at least try he will spend the rest of his life pondering, ‘What if’. And you can never be sure, with magic.

He hitches his hip onto the edge of the bed, because his legs are still weak, and the pain in his belly has faded a little but it’s been joined by sick horror and the awful sliver of hope.

The suit men are arguing. The Arthur Voice seems to be trying to prevent The Irish Voice from hurting the Whitecoatman. He doesn’t care.

He closes his eyes so he can’t see the oxygen tubes going up her nose and tries to pretend that she’s just sleeping. It doesn’t work. Her skin is weirdly rubbery, her lips nauseatingly slack beneath his. He waits anyway, his lips touching hers. Nothing happens, and it’s not a surprise but he still rather wants to cry again. He wonders which of them is the seventh dwarf. Probably him.

“Who’s the father?” he asks. The room goes quiet. He turns around to face the Whitecoatman, who looks sly for a moment. As he draws breath to reply, Theirishvoice interrupts.

“We can check your records. I’m sure you’ve kept them. If you tell him it’s him and it’s a lie, well. There are semi-trained men with weapons and tensions are high, it would be all too easy for a _tragic accident_ to occur.” He looks defiantly at Thearthurvoice. “I’m just saying.”

The Arthur Voice isn’t arguing.

The sly look falls away from the Whitecoatman’s face. “There was another subject. He was too unstable and had to be terminated. We harvested his sperm and fertilised some of her eggs with it. Two healthy embryos were implanted into her womb. So far both are doing well, and at least one seems to be displaying symptoms of magic.”

He clings to her mannequin-like hand. Whitecoatman is avoiding the question, so it’s probably something he doesn’t want to hear. It doesn’t really matter what he wants, though. He needs to know. For her sake, he has to know.

“That’s not what he asked, though, is it?” Thearthurvoice sounds cold. He probably knows that he doesn’t want to know, either.

“The sperm contributor was Subject VALIJG4.”

He feels himself pale. He’s managed not to throw up so far, but he’s considering giving up and going with it now. Valiant. She was terrified of him and now they’re using what’s close enough to necromancy to force his child – children – on her. It’s a twisted kind of rape without sex. There is nothing about the whole thing that is not deeply sickeningly wrong.

“Does that tell you what you needed to know?” Thearthurvoice asks, much gentler. That’s what clues him in that Thearthurvoice is talking to him.

He nods and turns back to her. Behind him the others are talking again. He leans forward and kisses her again, no vain hope-against-hope this time. He whispers, “Goodbye” against her lips and starts tugging out the power cords from the machines. The monitors shriek their electronic warnings to the room, lights flashing and things beeping. The Whitecoatman starts yelling and trying to get to them. He is shouting about the babies and potential. Thearthurvoice and a black man he hasn’t heard speak yet hold him back. Lancelot looks horrified.

“She wouldn’t have wanted this,” he tells him. He realises that somewhere along the line he has stopped thinking of him as a hallucination. He’s still very handsome, though. “She’d have pulled the plug herself sooner than let this happen.” He sits back down on the bed and takes her hand again. The high pitched death throes of the machines are making his head hurt.

“Lance,” Thearthurvoice says, “you, Elyan and Percy take our man here,” the Whitecoatman whimpers a little, “and find all the others. We need to get everyone out of here. We can’t have much longer before security show up.”

Lancelot starts to protest, but Thearthurvoice cuts him off. “Unless you think Gwaine should go with him? I wonder if this place has any stairs?”

The four of them leave, and Thearthurvoice sends Theirishvoice away, too. “Go see how Gwen and Leon are getting on with the records, will you? And check that Garry’s still on track.”

He wonders how he’s supposed to know when he can let go of her. Her heart and lungs stopped as soon as the machines cut out, and she’s been gone for months, but it doesn’t seem right to just leave her.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Thearthurvoice says quietly.

He shrugs uncomfortably. Thearthurvoice probably has no idea what else to say, and neither does he, so perhaps they just shouldn’t talk. “You didn’t do it,” is all he manages.

“No,” says Thearthurvoice. “But my father did.”

He turns his head so fast his neck twinges painfully.

“This is his company. Which I suppose makes it mine, too.” Thearthurvoice stares at Freya’s still form. “I’ve never been so ashamed in my life.”

Sometimes you have to say _something_ , even if there doesn’t really seem to be anything to say. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He supposes it could be sarcastic, but he thinks he means it.

Thearthurvoice blinks at him a couple of times then smiles a little. He has crooked teeth. Somehow it makes him seem a little more real. “Thank you.”

“Well, this _is_ a surprise,” a new voice drawls. A woman he’s never seen before is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She is very thin and her face is hard. Her hair is blonde and is probably lovely when she is healthy, but it is dry and looks a little like straw right now.

Thearthurvoice is shocked. “Morgause!”

She tries for somewhere between a sneer and a leer, but it seems a little half-hearted. “What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”

“God.” Thearthurvoice closes his eyes and sighs. “I suppose the only real surprise is that I’m surprised.”

She shrugs. “So what happens now?”

Thearthurvoice shrugs back. “We get everyone out and I go drag my inheritance through all the conceivable mud that can be found.”

She looks at Freya and raises an eyebrow. “Everyone?”

Fuck her. He did the right thing. “Everyone who wasn’t already dead and being used as an incubator for genetic experiments. Is that alright with you?”

Her nostrils flare as she takes an audible breath, but all she says is, “That seems fair.”

“If it helps any,” Thearthurvoice says, changing the subject away from Freya, “Morgana has been tearing parts of the world to pieces looking for you.”

“Not right now, but I think it might later.” She pauses and looks intently at Thearthurvoice. “How is she?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. We don’t really talk since she left home, yelling some madness about father being an evil despot, although I begin to see her point. But I know she’s been frantic trying to find you.”

Morgause’s posture doesn’t change at all, but somehow something around her eyes eases. He supposes she must feel better, knowing that someone out there cares enough about her disappearance to be worried and upset. He tries not to think about how desperate his mother must be. Or how devastated, if she’s given up.

“Thank you,” Morgause says.

Thearthurvoice shrugs again. “I didn’t do anything.”

“No, but you didn’t have to tell me.” Her stare is peculiarly penetrating.

“Well, you know,” Thearthurvoice’s smirk is somehow rather cheeky, and doesn’t seem to go with the suit at all, “We’re practically family.”

“Arthur!” Another woman’s voice. There are so many people all of a sudden. How are there so many people? “Sorry, excuse me, sorry,” the short woman with warm, dark skin and really very curly hair seems to be talking to Morgause as she sort of hesitantly shoves past her. It’s very strange to watch. “We’ve got all the records as far as we can tell, but we’ve also got Security incoming. Leon and Gwaine have gone to keep them busy but we have to get out now.”

Thearthurvoice pulls his shoulders back. “Thanks, Gwen. Can you find Morgause a gun and go keep the roof access clear?”

Gwen looks at Morgause a bit dubiously, but does as she’s told.

Thearthurvoice is bellowing almost before he makes it to the door. “Lance! Hurry it up, we’ve got company on the way!”

There’s a noise of assent from somewhere in the maze of rooms, and only a few minutes later the corridor outside Freya’s room is filled with people. Around the breadth of Thearthurvoice’s shoulders he can make out the suit men, Lancelot and Elyan-and-Percy; Edwin has managed to survive, more’s the pity, and he’s looking even crazier around the eyes these days; he doesn’t think he recognises any of the rest.

“Start getting them up to the roof, we’ll be up in a minute,” Thearthurvoice says.

“Where’s Morgause?” a middle aged man asks. Well, the man looks middle aged. It’s hard to be sure around here. He probably does, too. Hell, he doesn’t even know how old he actually is anymore. “What have you done with her?”

On this side of the door, so no one outside can see, Thearthurvoice’s hand twitches, like he’s releasing an eyeroll invisibly. “She’s with two of my people, guarding your escape route, which is going to get a whole lot harder in a few minutes, so the quicker you get moving, the better.” His pronouncement, and it is a _pronouncement_ , not just a statement, like normal people would make, is punctuated by the sounds of gunshots and shouting from outside. “Go!”

“What about this one?” Elyan-and-Percy, the ridiculously large part, asks, gently shaking the Whitecoatman by the back of his white coat.

“Oh no,” Thearthurvoice replies, “He stays.” There is something quite nasty in the tone, something a little vicious and satisfied. He knows how it feels. He’s leaving, but the Whitecoatman has to stay here.

Thearthurvoice turns back to face him. “You need to go, too.” His eyes flick to Freya. “I’m sorry, but I can’t guarantee what’s going to happen here once security arrives. I’ll do my best to make sure she gets a decent burial, if I possibly can.”

“You aren’t coming?” He doesn’t know why that bothers him but it does, a hard kernel of worry joining the unholy cocktail of emotions roiling in his belly.

Thearthurvoice shakes his head. “We’re staying, to cover your escape. Besides, I have to deal with my Father.” His eyes are bleak.

“Oh. Where are we going?” Suddenly the prospect of leaving is a little frightening. He’s been in here so long, what will it be like not to have these walls enclosing him anymore? Will the sun burn him? What if colours hurt his eyes and he can’t really look at them anymore? He clutches at Freya’s hand and realises it is cooler than it was before.

“I don’t know.” Thearthurvoice grins, revealing those crooked teeth again. It’s stupid that the sight of them steadies him a little. “No one who’s not going with you does. You won’t be tracked down if things go badly here.”

“I thought you didn’t know what was happening here.” That chases the little grin away. He feels a bit bad about that.

“I didn’t. I swear, I couldn’t even have begun to imagine this nightmare. I just.” Thearthurvoice scrubs his hands over his face, and he realises that at some point he must have put the gun away. “My Father was _very_ determined to keep me away from this department. I’ve only seen him like that when- well. I had a really bad feeling about it. Let’s just leave it at that.”

He nods and looks down at Freya. Her skin has taken on a grey tinge that wasn’t there before. He stands and folds her hands on her chest. He’s not sure why, it just seems like the thing to do. Then he turns back to Thearthurvoice, feeling a bit lost. He has nothing to collect, no possessions here. It feels strange to be on the threshold of just… walking away. No preparation, no packing, no making sure all the lights are off, just walking out.

Thearthurvoice reaches out to shake his hand. It is large and warm and firm after Freya’s. “I don’t even know your name,” he says.

The letters line up on the tip of his tongue, and he shakes his head to clear them away. “Merlin,” he says a little uncertainly. Then, with more confidence, “My name is Merlin.”

Apparently he isn’t going to be the seventh dwarf today.

* * *

The noise of the chopper is deafening, and so is the sense of open space around them, _all_ around them, as they fly away over the city. Well, _a_ city. He has no idea which one it was. He’s going to find out, though, so he can very carefully never go there again. Lancelot and Gwen have come with them. Lancelot is nodding and looking very serious as the middle aged looking man pontificates about something, and Gwen is comforting a little girl who can’t be more than about eight.

He is torn between sitting with his face all but glued to the window so he can drink in the space and the movement and the light, and huddling inside the dim, enclosed interior. He still can’t remember where his home is. He wonders if his mother is in the directory.

There is a firm tap on his shoulder. Morgause leans in close to shout in his ear, “The Golden Boy not coming, then?”

He feels silly when it takes him a moment to realise she means Thearthurvoice. He shakes his head. “Said he had to stay and deal with his father,” he shouts back.

She looks vaguely impressed.

“Do you think he’ll win?” he asks.

She looks around at the people huddled in the helicopter and smiles a little, and it’s the softest thing he’s seen about her. “I think he already has.”


End file.
